Spectrum
by stripeyjumpers
Summary: It seems no matter what happens, Sherlock fails to understand sentiment. {a series of stories each pertaining to a certain color} *reviews would be awesome sauce*
1. Red

A/N: Just saying that this could also be read as "the five times Sherlock was faced with sentiment and the one time he understood it." Johnlock if you put it under a microscope. Just kidding it's pretty obvious. Thanks for reading :3 *reviews to me are like biscuits and tea*- I'm so lame someone help ;P

* * *

"I don't care how cool the sound is you can't just go about smashing plates on the floor!" John bellowed in the sitting room as he waved around a broken shard of ceramic.

"John, your face." The detective answered flatly.

"I'm sorry, did you just try to use an immature, adolescent comeback to deflect the situation? You trying to be funny all of a sudden?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed as he held his index finger up to John's cheek. "No, John, your face."

"Yes I know that's my face what about it?"

Instead of responding, Sherlock slowly lifted his hand and pressed the backs of his fingers lightly on John's right cheek.

"Ah! Jesus your fingers are like ice Sherlock!" John winced as he batted Sherlock's hand away. "Now what's so fascinating about my face?"

"It's red."

"Really, you don't say! Do you think maybe it could be 'cause I'm frustrated?" he waved the broken plate in front of Sherlock's eyes.

"Definitely not. When you're flustered your face turns a dusty rose, more pink than anything. Though now your cheeks are beginning to look more the color of strawberries. It's a bit disconcerting."

"Wait…really?" John rested the piece of plate down on an end table and brushed his fingers over his face, feeling heat radiating from it almost immediately.

Sherlock placed his wrist on John's forehead. "Hm, definitely the start of a fever. You should sit. Or something."

"Damn it," John slouched into his armchair, "I thought this pounding headache was just from _you_."

"How could you possibly think that?"

"Does smashing plates at eight o'clock in the morning ring any bells?"

"No, though it does produce a sound like eighty violins screeching ten different high notes at once."

"Right. Just, could you get me some water or something?"

"Water or a something, which one would you like?"

"Oh you know what I meant!"

"No I didn't, the word 'something' is very vague."

"I know you're just trying to piss me off so that I'll get it myself, Sherlock."

"Is it working?"

"Screw you."

"When?"

"Ha ha real amusing." He gritted his teeth and got up to get himself a glass of water.

"When the hell did you get so sarcastic Sherlock?" John asked from the kitchen counter.

"John you should probably get some rest or...whatever."

"Which one, 'rest' or 'whatever'?"

"Turning the tables, very clever."

"Yeah well, actually I think I will head up to my room, my head's starting to give me more grief."

Sherlock only let out the tiniest "Mhm," as John padded up the steps.

* * *

"Sherlock," was the first thing John croaked through a scratchy throat as he lifted his heavy lids open to the darkness of his bedroom.

"Sh...Sh'lock…" his voice was only lower and hoarser as he tried to raise it.

With sweaty, shaking palms he reached for his mobile.

_Can you come up? –JW_

Sherlock was sifting through their recent case file as his phone buzzed in his pocket. He sighed heavily as his thumbs flew across the keypad.

_Why? I'm busy. –SH_

He plopped his phone down on the desk and went back to the files.

_Help –JW_

John could see the streak of light flooding into his room as Sherlock hesitantly cracked the door open.

"John?"

Sherlock slowly trotted over to the side of John's bed where he could see his friend coiled up inside the sheets, visibly shaking and teeth chattering.

"Sherlock…"

"Yes, that is in fact my name, now what did you need?"

"Bin," he croaked.

"The bin? You called me all the way up here just to—" Sherlock stopped as he saw John grimace and cup his mouth. "Oh," he breathed as he picked up the bin from the other end of the room and placed it next to John's side.

"I assume you're going to be sick now, so I'm going to leave."

John didn't have time to answer before he was retching rather violently into the trash.

Sherlock was right in the middle of piecing together some vital information about the case when his phone chimed again.

_Tea..? –JW _

He rolled his eyes before reluctantly getting up and heading over to the kitchen.

Sherlock set the mug down on John's nightstand and was about to bolt right back out when John's shaky voice stopped his stride.

"Hey," John's tone was questioning as he held the mug in his trembling fingers, "this is orange juice."

"Close enough."

"Close eno—" but John couldn't even be angry with Sherlock before he'd bounded out the door.

The next morning, John decided to relocate himself to the sofa with the hope that the television could distract him from his aching stomach. Hey lay curled up in his comforter, surrounded by a mountain of used tissues as he tried to focus on the program he was watching.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Sherlock sitting focused in the kitchen, staring down into microscopic wonders. The low, muffled voices from the television served as a calming white noise as he began to watch Sherlock work. The detective peered into his microscope, scribbled down a few notes, replaced the glass slide with something different, and John couldn't help but meld into Sherlock's quick and elegant movements.

Sherlock went on working without so much as a glance to John, who had now succumb to a blissful slumber thanks to the unintended help from his flatmate. When John peeled his eyes open again, his heart sunk a little when he no longer saw Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table. Instead Sherlock came bounding into the living room with his long billowing coat cascading around his slim figure and his dusty blue scarf tucked neatly around his neck. He was sliding on his gloves when John's tiny voice almost startled him.

"Where're you going?"

"Hm? Oh, right, new lead, very important, gotta be off."

"But…" John started, not knowing exactly what he wanted to say yet.

"But what? You obviously can't accompany me. Don't wait up," Sherlock headed toward the door.

"Wait," John managed to say a little louder.

"What _is_ it John?" Sherlock asked irritably.

"Don't go…" he mumbled with eyes closed.

"You are not my mother John, I'm leaving."

"Sherlock no!" Now John shuffled around, tangled in his sheets as he managed to sit himself up.

"What is wrong with you, you're a grown man you don't need me here!"

"Do you…do you really have to go now?"

"Yes, I do, I still don't get why you want me here, I'm not even helping you in your ailment!"

John looked around nervously, trying to conjure up some reason to get Sherlock to stay.

"I just…I don't feel well…"

"Yes I've gathered that, please let me go."

Looking up at Sherlock with an unexpected sadness welling up in his hazy blue eyes, he couldn't think of anything more to say.

"Alright, go then."

"Thank you!" Sherlock shouted with relief as he swung the door open proudly and slammed it hard behind him.

John shoved his face into the pillow out of frustration and embarrassment.


	2. Orange

"This way, John!" Sherlock ordered as the pair charged through an empty flat after the suspect they'd been chasing.

John turned a corner and entered the bare, wooden-floored room to find Sherlock struggling as the assailant kept him in a headlock. John's instincts kicked in and he rushed over, grabbing the criminal by the shoulders and yanking him off his best friend. The suspect turned swiftly and landed a harsh blow to John's stomach. John's knees buckled without control as he dropped to the floor, clutching his abdomen. The suspect turned back around to a speeding gloved fist heading straight toward his face. Sherlock punched the guy with all the strength he could muster, most likely breaking his nose in the process.

When the man fell backward, Sherlock didn't hesitate to grab him by his shoulders and bash his head up against the wall, finally knocking him unconscious. He turned toward his flatmate who was still grimacing and grasping his waist.

"John! Are you okay?" He panted and he leaned down and placed a hand on the doctor's shoulder.

"Yeah I…" John's breaths were short and uneven, "he…knocked the wind out of…"

"Alright, it's okay, just try to take a deep breath and relax."

John took Sherlock's advice and let go of his stomach as his breathing became more regular. Sherlock held out a hand to help him up and John stood against the wall for a moment, staring out the large window on the left side of the room.

"Thanks…" he breathed.

"Of course, no problem." Sherlock mumbled as he texted Lestrade their location.

"You alright then?" the doctor asked, eyeing Sherlock's neck for bruises.

"What? Yes, perfectly fine. Let's go, Lestrade should be here shortly."

"Actually, just a minute…" John's voice trailed off as he continued to stare out the window at the tangerine sunset in the distance.

"What're you gaping at John? I'm not very keen on standing around next to an unconscious criminal."

"Oh," John said, looking down at the suspect as if he'd forgotten he were even there, "right, well, you can head out, but give me a second will you?"

Sherlock huffed in irritation and stalked out the doorway. When Sherlock had left, John made his way over to the window. He pried open the dusty glass barrier and immediately felt the rush of a cool evening breeze. He eyed up the rusted metal fire escape before squirming out of the window, his feet making a metallic twang noise as they clopped down onto the grate.

He rested his dry hands on the railing, almost gasping with the contrasting touch of the cool metal against his warm skin. John took a deep breath, letting the chilled air fill his lungs like an ice cold glass of water on a sweltering summer afternoon.

He looked out at the brilliant sunset that he hadn't seen, or at least hadn't appreciated in ages. The colors were beautifully swirled together, a twist of orange sherbet melding into a ruby red glow, encompassing a golden orb of sun.

John was just feeling a certain lost happiness well up inside him when it was interrupted by a thundering baritone slapping the silence in the face.

"John, what the hell are you doing?"

"Oh bugger off Sherlock!" He snapped as he turned toward his flatmate who was staring at him through the opened window.

"Let's get going, we don't have all night."

"You couldn't just let me have this could you?"

"Have what? You were staring into the sunset like a cliché ending to some worthless romantic film."

"Yes, I was, and I was quite enjoying the relaxing silence after chasing a damn criminal through the streets and getting punched in the gut!"

"John, staring into the sun is not relaxing; if anything you are slowly damaging your retinas while simultaneously wasting a large amount of time."

John sighed and tightened his grip on the railing.

"Damn it Sherlock, I thought maybe even you could appreciate a simple sunset, but of course you've got it down to a bloody science."

"It's not science; it's common sense, you should never look directly at the sun."

"Oh for god's sake, get out here!"

"I'm sorry?"

John didn't hesitate in reaching his arm through the window and grabbing the detective's elbow, pulling him enough so that he had no choice but to join him on the fire escape.

"John! I don't appreciate being handled!"

"And I don't appreciate being interrupted! Now you're going to look at the sunset and be happy damn it."

Sherlock brushed himself off and glanced up at the melting sky. He stared for a moment before looking down at John.

"I don't see what all the fuss is about."

"Seriously? It's pretty, you git."

"While I can easily ascertain the aesthetic appeal, I still don't see how it's worth gaping at for prolonged amounts of time."

"Sentiment, Sherlock, remember? That thing you always have trouble grasping?"

"Ah, sentiment, what a waste of energy. Come now John, I believe I hear the suspect beginning to wake, and Lestrade should be waiting downstairs."

"Right, fine, let's go then…" John rolled his eyes slightly as he followed his tall friend out of the room.


	3. Yellow

John listened intently to the soft _pit-pat _that came from Sherlock's fingers effortlessly tapping away at the keyboard of his laptop. John was laying length-wise on the sofa with a hardcover book in hand, trying to actually focus on the story instead of all the quiet little noises that permeated through the lifeless silence of the flat.

It wasn't long before John couldn't be bothered to focus on the book at all, and snapped it shut with a thud before resting it on his chest and sighing contentedly.

"Story getting dull?" Sherlock questioned with a quick glance up from the desk.

"Hm? Yeah just a bit."

"I told you eventually mundane human activities wouldn't be enough. Admit you're itching for a case too."

"Sherlock I am not _itching_ to go running around London after crazed criminals thank you very much."

"John as usual you're a terrible liar."

"Alright, okay, so I'm bored, sue me."

"I knew it. Right as usual."

"You're not always right you know, you—" John stopped as he looked up at Sherlock typing away. One of Sherlock's blue silken sleeves had slid down his arm, exposing a large patch of unnaturally yellow skin.

"John, I know I'm very interesting to look at but you of all people should know staring is rude."

John pointed a finger in the direction of Sherlock's laptop.

"Sherlock, where did that come from?"

"What? Oh, I believe the laptop was invented in—"

"No, not that, that mark on your arm, what is that?"

Sherlock looked down in distaste at his wrist.

"Oh, a bruise."

"What? Let me see."

John got up from the sofa, the book sliding off his chest and plopping onto the cushions. He headed straight for Sherlock's arm and immediately wrapped his hand around the detective's wrist. Sherlock shuddered with the sudden contact.

"No, it's—" he tried to stop John from pushing up his sleeve more, but it was too late.

"Oh, you've got a whole mess of them, Sherlock, where'd you get these?"

"The market, where do you think?"

"Well they're starting to yellow so they've been here at least a week, how did this happen?"

"It's irrelevant."

"How is it irrelevant?"

"They're not your bruises, why would you care?"

John just stared in bewilderment at Sherlock's confused expression, and instead of answering he focused on the arm he was holding, and began to run his fingers along the yellowish blotches, applying slight pressure in some areas.

"Does it hurt when I do that?" he asked in a professional tone.

"N-no…not really," Sherlock found himself suddenly hypnotized with the way the doctor was moving his fingers along his arm.

"You should really take better care of yourself Sherlock, and stop getting into fights and not telling me."

When he couldn't take the strange feeling that human contact gave him anymore, he violently snatched his wrist away from John and shoved his sleeve back over his arm.

"You are not my protector, John, I don't need to report every scrape and bruise to you." He narrowed his gaze back to his computer screen and continued typing.

"Fine," John huffed, putting his arms up in surrender, "be that way, but when you're stuck in some dark alley somewhere getting the stuffing knocked out of you don't come crying to me."

"I don't come crying to anyone."

"Whatever, I'm going to get the shopping." John sighed as he slipped his arms through his thin light brown jacket. "Don't get into a fight with a hoard of angry pirates while I'm gone," he added as he reached for the door.

"And you wonder where I get my sarcasm from." Sherlock mused without looking up.

John let out an exhausted laugh before shutting the door behind him.


	4. Green

It was like the stark contrast between black and white, the difference between night and day. One minute, everything was fine, everything was normal and in its place and how it should have been, and with the snap of the universe's fingers, everything was wrong.

The light was red, and John and Sherlock's cab had stopped appropriately. That was the moment that the world was in order; John was glancing nonchalantly out the window with Sherlock preoccupied on his phone. Then the light turned green.

Everything happened with a wisp of a second; it only took a tiny fraction of time for a driver to speed through the intersection and crash violently into the side of their cab, pinning them up against an electric box.

John catalogued the moment as a series of sounds; first was the unnatural whizzing of a vehicle that sounded far too close, next was the ear splitting noise of shattering glass, and last was a loud thud as the other side of the car crinkled in on itself.

The car had made the impact on John's side, sending shards of glass firing into his sandy brown hair, slicing open the skin of his shoulder and forearm. Sherlock's side had made violent contact with the electric box, shattering glass as well as making a dent in one of Sherlock's thighs.

When the world finally stopped spinning, John lifted his eyes open. His vision was blurry, and he could taste copper on his lips. He swore under his breath as he looked at his right arm, blood trickling down the sides like a thin stream of water dripping off a mountainside. His head was pounding and he was sure one of his ribs was at least bruised when he had difficulty breathing. He looked out the window and saw the front end of the vehicle still smashed into the side of the cab, with the windshield slightly shattered and the driver apparently having fled.

John looked over at his flatmate to find his head drooping over his shoulders and his arm laying limp in an unnatural manner. He took the chance of shaking his shoulder in an attempt to wake him up.

"Sh...Sherlock…get up…"

Soon enough, the detective began to stir and open his eyes to analyze his surroundings.

"John…" he said heavily, obviously straining to form coherent sentences. "What…what happened?" he finally breathed out.

"Car crashed into us…you okay?"

Sherlock took a moment to examine his limbs, wincing when he tried to lift his left arm.

"Yes, I think so, 'cept for my arm, might be broken…and the glass, but nothing else, you?"

"Er…same, I think, well, everything hurts right now, I just—" John's eyes suddenly went wide as he looked up at their cab driver. His heart started racing furiously and he was suddenly stricken with adrenaline and energy. He unbuckled his seatbelt.

"John, what are you doing? You need to stay put!"

"No!" was all John shouted before he removed what was left of the divider between the cabbie and the passengers. The driver had also been struck and was bleeding profusely from his head. John lurched forward as much as he could to get a better look at him.

"John! Sit back, you don't need to play doctor right now I can assure you there is help on the way!"

"Yeah and you don't need to play jerk detective right now so just leave me be!"

John turned the man's head and saw a large gash running right above his ear.

"Damn it!" John cursed both about the driver's injuries and his own that were currently reminding him of their presence. "I need to help stop the bleeding; this isn't just some paper cut that can wait." He was about to take off his jacket when Sherlock flung an arm in front of him to stop him.

"No, you need to sit still or you're going to aggravate your injuries, and why does this man's safety concern you? You don't even know who he is."

"Obviously, Sherlock, but I'm a doctor and unlike you I care about other people and their wellbeing!"

Sherlock still held John back as he struggled to help the cabbie, but both of them froze when they heard sirens not too far away.

"You see John? You can stop worrying now."

John just huffed as he sat back and held onto his side in an attempt to calm the searing pain.

"I'll still be worried…"

"I'm sure we'll be alright."

"But what if he's not?"

"You didn't know him anyway; I don't understand how you can care so much for someone you never knew."

"God Sherlock…maybe you are a sociopath…"

"…Sentiment?"

"Good deduction..."

John sighed, closed his eyes and let the sound of the sirens lull him into unconsciousness.


	5. Blue

John could hear the tiny crunch of gritty pavement that came from under his feet as he and Sherlock navigated their way through the park. They had just finished locating a piece of evidence that a suspect left behind on the trail and were on their way back to Baker Street.

"You didn't have to be rude you know." John said with his hands shoved in his pockets.

"You're absolutely right. I didn't _have_ to, I _wanted _to." Sherlock stated as he stared straight ahead of him, walking a foot or so ahead of his friend.

"You do realize Anderson is in fact a person, right?"

"The evidence being…?

"Sherlock, I know insulting him is like a sport to you but you could tone it down a notch every now and then."

"Oh please John, even you laughed at my hair helmet comment."

"It does look like a piece of plastic doesn't it?" he chuckled softly.

"Not to mention that permanent vacant look on his face."

Suddenly John heard a sharp crackle under his shoes and stopped in place.

"Shit!" He muttered, looking down at his feet.

They were stopped under the shade of a large tree, the shadows and patches of light jumping across Sherlock's face as he paced back to John.

"What? Have you managed to break your foot in the last five seconds?"

John looked down with a disappointed scowl at the tiny, crushed robin's egg on the pavement. The shatters of sky blue rested in a small pile like crisp, dry leaves in autumn.

"Well, at least there was nothing in it," John reasoned as he picked tiny shards off the bottom of his shoe.

"Yes, you stepped on an egg shell; can we please resume our prior activity of walking?"

"Oh, would you look at that!" John smiled wide in the direction of the tree trunk and kneeled down by it, looking eagerly at a small, wiry nest with three hollow blue eggs nestled inside.

"This is not the time to act like a curious schoolgirl John," Sherlock whined as he rolled his eyes and reluctantly knelt down next to his friend. "Since when do you find crap like this fascinating?"

"My whole world doesn't revolve around you; I do have other interests you know." John grumbled as he held one of the cracked open shells in his palm.

"What, you like _birds_?"

"Well not as much now obviously, but I used to watch them all the time when I was little."

"How heartwarming, let's go. This is unsanitary."

"Oh shut up Sherlock, here," he put the tiny egg back in its place and lifted the small nest for Sherlock to hold.

"John, I'm not touching that, and people will stare, we're looking rather odd at the moment."

"You're wearing gloves, and there's no one here!" John motioned it towards him with the excitement of a small child, like he'd suddenly been replaced with a ten-year-old version of himself.

Sherlock grunted in agreement and cradled the swirl of twigs in his gloved palms. He looked down at the delicate shapes, then back up at John in confusion.

"Am I supposed to be getting something from this? Besides a disease?"

John just let out a tired laugh and leaned his head up against the trunk.

"What's funny?"

"Just never thought I'd see this, the tough and powerful Sherlock Holmes, holding something fragile."

Sherlock's face twisted in disgust as he set the nest back on the ground.

"Come now John, I'm done playing your little sentiment games."

John stared up at Sherlock's face for a moment while getting up and brushing himself off.

"You know your eyes are that color sometimes." He said almost without thinking.

Sherlock turned to look at him as they began their stride again.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, robin's egg blue, that's the color of your eyes sometimes."

"What do you mean 'sometimes'?"

John shrugged, "Dunno, sometimes they're like a mint green."

"And why are you telling me this?"

"I'm just saying you have cool eyes Sherlock jeez can't even take a compliment like a normal person."

"Well your eyes look like the sky just after the sun sets, like a navy blue, but that's just pointing out the obvious, how is that a compliment?"

"I'm just gonna say 'you're welcome', and 'thank you', and leave it at that."

"John, you're confusing."

"Good."


	6. Purple

Another book off the floor, another stack of papers organized, another pile of clutter gone through. John was looming about the flat, cleaning things up in the dim light of the lamp and orange glow from the fireplace. The windows looked painted in black with the night sky lingering over the city, and Sherlock sat on the sofa with a focused gaze on his laptop.

"Sherlock, honestly how many copies of the English dictionary do we need?" John complained flatly as he held up a dusted copy.

"As many as it takes to get up the IQ of this city. I'll be giving them away as favors at our next gathering, happy?"

"I really don't need your sarcasm right now okay?" The doctor shook his head silently as he shoved the book in an empty space on the shelf.

"Fine, I'll continue to be cold and analytical, will that better suit your mood?" Sherlock shot back.

John just sighed and rubbed his eyes, heading to the kitchen to finish straightening up the table. "Just do whatever Sherlock, as usual." He yawned, covering his mouth with his tattered long-sleeve pajama top.

"Gladly."

The shorter man shuffled over to the living room, putting away some files in a folder. He stopped on his way back to the kitchen, looking at the man sitting so intently in his deep purple dress shirt and black trousers.

"Why're you wearing that?" John quirked an eyebrow at the detective.

"Wearing what? I always dress like this."

"Exactly, you look like you're going to some fancy dinner party."

Sherlock looked at his watch, which indicated it was well past one in the morning.

"John, what're you still doing up?"

"I'm sorry?"

"You've been tidying things for almost an hour, but you're moving slow and you've got bags under your eyes so you're clearly tired, yet here you are. Why aren't you sleeping?"

"Maybe I'm just sick of the mess around here." He stalked back over to the table and put the last of the dishes in the sink.

"Or maybe there's something keeping you awake," now intrigued by something new to figure out, Sherlock closed his laptop and set it on the coffee table, "something you're afraid will happen while you sleep?"

"Listen I don't need you deducing me right now okay? Just leave me be I'll stay up as long as I want."

"Ah, night terrors then. That's odd; I believe I remember you telling me those stopped quite shortly after you arrived here. What's triggered this now?"

John slammed a mug down on the counter and balled his fists. "Nothing you would know." He said through gritted teeth, before stomping back into the sitting room and sinking into his armchair.

"I know everything, I'm sure I could figure it out."

"I'd rather you not." He rested his head back and closed his eyes.

"Well, it's probably something recent,"

"Sherlock,"

"Most likely case-related, probably having to do with either you or me, or both,"

"_Sherlock_,"

"Ah! Four days ago when that man pulled a gun and shot at us. That shot just missed me didn't it? Bit of a close one but you seemed fine afterwards, which I suppose looking back on it was probably a sign that you were the opposite of fine—"

"Alright you win congratulations would you like a biscuit?" John snapped.

"Oh, I suppose this makes you uncomfortable. I apologize, then."

"Yeah, no problem." He rubbed his face in frustration.

"Is there, erm, anything that I could do?"

"You could leave me alone, there's that."

"I couldn't possibly do that. Now that I know something's troubling you I won't be able to concentrate until the problem's resolved. It's going to nag at my subconscious like a lingering gnat."

"Well let it, 'cause you may know a lot about a lot of things but I'm pretty damn sure you're clueless in the comforting department."

"And I'm fairly sure you're right, but that doesn't mean I can't try."

John perked his head up in quiet disbelief. "And what would you try?"

Sherlock patted the seat to his right, inviting John over. "Come here, John."

"Should I be scared?"

"Possibly, just come here, and bring the television remote."

"Uhm, alright."

John got up from his chair, grabbed the remote and was about to sit down next to Sherlock when he spoke up again.

"Ah, and switch off the lights, too."

The doctor made a non-committal noise of complaint and flicked off the lamp and the light in the kitchen. He slumped down next to Sherlock and flicked on the television, making the screen and the fire the only sources of light.

"Okay, what now?" he asked, leaning back and flipping through the channels.

"Pick a program you like."

John shot the detective a strange look. "Uhmm, okay."

He flipped on something he enjoyed and settled himself in the cushions a bit.

"So watching crap telly is your solution to my sleeping problems?"

Sherlock turned at John with a look of apprehension. "No, this is," he stated, and he slid himself over until his shoulder and thigh was lined up with John's. John just sat, looking like a deer in the headlights as the detective tentatively wrapped an arm around his shoulder.

"Sherlock, what the—"

"John, I've lived with you long enough to be able to deduce what comforts you," he shuffled back over to the other side of the couch more, pulling John along with him, "I know when you come back from an irritating day at the surgery, you flip on the telly and watch something that makes you laugh," he gripped the top of John's arm a little tighter, nudging him until the doctor gave in and rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder, "I know from observing you, you're a person who enjoys human contact," he started rubbing his hand up and down John's forearm, "and from what I've ascertained from general social conventions, when someone is upset, you give them some sort of physical touch."

For a moment, the two just sat in the scarce lighting, half-listening to the gentle hum that the voices on the television had become, and closing their eyes.

"Sherlock, this is…thank you…" he whispered.

"It's quite alright John. I know I'm not proficient at being affectionate, but for you I'll try because I need you to be okay."

John sniffled, and it was only when Sherlock felt a tiny drop of dampness on his shoulder did he realize John had started to cry.

"Oh, uhm," Sherlock started, beginning to shift uncomfortably, but John stopped him, wrapping an arm around the detective's waist.

"It's okay, Sherlock, I'm okay…just, pent up tears I suppose. I'll uhm, I'll stop."

"Why?"

John lifted his head a bit, and looked down at the small damp spot he made on Sherlock's sleeve.

"This is a nice shirt, I wouldn't want to ruin it with my tears, after all you've got a fancy dinner party to attend, yeah?"

Sherlock just grinned quickly and moved the arm on John's shoulder to the back of his head, tugging the doctor closer, and resting his own head on the wisps of sandy brown hair.

"Yes, plenty of dinner parties to attend."

John sniffled again, and unconsciously sat up a bit when he realized something.

"Hey, d'you know what?" he whispered.

"Yes?"

John leaned his head closer to Sherlock's chest, wrapped his other arm around him and hugged him tight.

"Sentiment." He said.

And there he was, the tough and powerful Sherlock Holmes, holding something fragile.

* * *

A/N: Well, I hope you guys enjoyed my little tales, and if you have any suggestions or comments I'm always up for it, again thanks so much for stopping by ^-^


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